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Yusef said dimentia
under his brown
felt hat. Said a man
on fire: be cool. Said it
blue, a swarm of. Said
its words fell out, burning.
Said one day you’ll forget
what. Said an elephant
herd, to the soles of their
feet. Said pull that hat
up a bit. Said let me kiss
you there, Yusef. Said
the words fell out, just so,
said Yusef. Said dimentia,
beneath his brown felt hat.
Just said it.

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Grab cinnamon, then
climb the building and
sprinkle it upon the
unsuspecting heads
of the people below. Rain
down upon them that
spice with all of the fervor
of Emeril Lagasse. Do it
passionately and with great
care, as if you are keeping
a secret for the one
that you love, upon which
their happiness depends.
You hang that dust
on the wind and the good
people will stare up in wonder
at the red tide flecking the sky,
eyes wide, blood vessels blooming
to match that subtle magic
and the tears and snot sending
them blubbering and batshit.

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Monsters celebrate in most
usual ways. Simple parties,
with decorated cakes and
candles, or sometimes piñatas,
a margarita machine, and a taco
guy. Though, they celebrate the smallest
things: water running down the
gutter carrying old receipts and
dried up leaves, finding pennies
pressed in the year of their
birth, an ivy vine coiling around
the cold metal pole of the stop
sign. They’ll celebrate almost
anything that proves they’re
beautiful. Their menacing mouths
opened wide and indomitable,
whispering simple wonder
at themselves and the world.

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Your toes are canine
animals, but far more
cunning and decidedly
less capable of killing.
I suppose I may be
mistaken in this
analogy but you see
what I mean. They
seem somehow independent
of you and, yes,
to one another. Sometimes
they pull startlingly at the hair
of my legs, or simply brush
against my skin and feel
inhumanly cold. Toes, you
know, are the farthest
things from your face. Thank
goodness for that. Anyhow,
beep beep boop, little toe,
live forever!